


The Bridges of Paddington Basin

by Jadesfire, originally reads (originally)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Collaboration, Community: pod_together, Gen, Genii Loci, Grand Union Canal, Hot Tug, Misuse of Architecture, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally%20reads
Summary: I don't think anyone else in London honestly looked at one of the footbridges in Paddington Basin and thought 'temporary holding cell'. Then again, most people aren't my boss.





	The Bridges of Paddington Basin

**_The world is made up of four elements: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. This is a fact well known. It's also wrong. There's a fifth element, and generally it's called Surprise._**  
Terry Pratchett, _The Truth_

[Download MP3](http://originally.nu/podfic/%5BRoL%5D%20Bridges%20of%20Paddington%20Basin.mp3) | Duration: 00:15:28

 

Like all major cities, London is full of the grand designs of architects who see their way to immortality lying in a world of statement buildings and public spaces. The trouble is, once the actual public gets hold of said spaces, they don't necessarily understand the architect's original vision, or particularly care about it. That's how the space under the South Bank got turned into London's most iconic skate park, or Princess Diana's memorial fountain into a paddling pool.

But I don't think anyone else in London honestly looked at one of the footbridges in Paddington Basin and thought 'temporary holding cell'. Then again, most people aren't my boss.

In Nightingale's defence, the bridge had been designed to curl in on itself, each octagonal segment folding back on the next until they formed a perfect circle. Trouble is, there's not supposed to be anyone inside when it does its party trick.

"That's three of them," Nightingale said, over the indignant shouting, "What happened to the rest?"

Although it was nearly 1am, the paths were well-lit, presumably to prevent locals from going for an unexpected midnight dip.

"I persuaded Oxford and Aylesbury back into their, er-" I scrabbled around for the right word. " _Vessel_. For now. So that's five. There were eight originally, so we're three short."

We both turned slowly, scanning the waterfront for any tell-tale signs of disturbance. At the far end of the Basin, somehow on the wrong side of the lifting bridge, the Genii Loci of the Oxford and Aylesbury canals were cracking open a couple more beers and settling back into their floating jacuzzi.

Technically, it was called a hot tug, but what it amounted to was a jacuzzi with an outboard motor. According to the website, it was great for short pleasure cruises up and down the Thames, not for travelling all the way to London from Birmingham. I supposed no one had told the Genii that when they'd set out. I also supposed that when a gang of canal gods got together and decided they wanted to travel somewhere by water, there weren't going to be many ways of stopping them. On the side of the jacuzzi, someone had scratched out the name 'Hot Tug' and replaced it with _Grand Union Outing_ in angular letters.

"Maybe they went in the pub?" I suggested, and Nightingale glanced over his shoulder at the huddled group in their bridge-prison behind us.

"Maybe," he said. "I think these miscreants should be safe enough here until we return." Turning, he rapped the metal top of his cane against the bars of the bridge, making the whole thing resound, and eliciting some groans from inside that suggested the occupants had passed from 'sobering up' into 'incipient hangover'.

Fortunately, we were on the right side of the bridge to head over to the only pub still open. Not only was it well past closing time, even most places with late licences were closed by now, this not exactly being one of London's hottest nightlife spots. Paddington Basin was more sleek high-rise and Sloane Ranger in style than stag-dos and nightclubs.

"Oh good heavens," Nightingale muttered as we got closer. "Well, that would explain it." He gestured upwards and the name of the pub, which I hadn't noticed before, finally caught my eye.

"Of course," I said. "Where else?"

The Grand Union Pub, as new-build as the rest of the Basin, was trying for an old fashioned, just-the-right-side-of-hipster style, with big leather sofas and wallpaper with huge floral motifs. Unfortunately, seeing as it was currently mostly empty apart from the small, noisy crowd clustered around the bar, it felt more like a slightly sad Wetherspoons on a Tuesday night. They were an odd looking group. Three men in swimming shorts, t-shirts and football scarves, and a gaggle of young people in outfits designed to look good only under strobe lighting. There was a pair of obviously under-age black girls in sparkly halter tops - one gold, one silver - who were very familiar.

I still had hopes of getting this done quietly, since I'd got on okay with Chelsea and Olympia the last time I ran into them, and they were actually some of the more cooperative members of the Thames family. Apparently that memo hadn't been passed along to the canal folks, because one of them looked over his shoulder, saw us, shouted, "The fuzz!", which was just rude, and started to leg it for the back door.

Nine times out of ten, foot chases in London are much, much easier than car chases. Between the general traffic, the one way streets and the sheer number of back alleys, a copper on foot is going to be able to keep track of a suspect a whole lot more easily than one in a squad car. It's also why so many police officers have sacrificed their street cred in favour of speed and taken up cycling.

A bike wouldn't have been much help in these close quarters, though, as the three men I was chasing took a sharp right, ducking through a gate that I hadn't seen in the darkness. I followed them out into what the developers had probably described as 'service roads' when Paddington Basin was being built. It had the advantage of being wide and flat, but the disadvantage of coming to a t-junction at the end.

Predictably, one went right and the other two went left, back towards the water. As Nightingale hadn't followed me, I figured the canal area was his to look after, and turned right, listening for the running footsteps in the semi-darkness. London was quiet enough at this time of night that I could follow him as much by sound as sight, but eventually we'd hit a main road, and I didn't want to risk losing him in the traffic.

It shouldn't actually have been possible for a middle-aged man with a beer gut to outrun a fit, younger police officer, but like their River Cousins, the Canals didn't seem to have got the memo about what they should and shouldn't be able to do.

We followed the curve of the buildings around, and came out from under the skyscrapers onto Praed Street, where, to my relief, he took another right, still following the curve of the Basin, rather than heading towards the bright lights of the Edgeware Road.

"Stop! Police!" I shouted, a little breathlessly. Instead of stopping - and no one ever does, but we have to say it just for the look of the thing - he half-tripped, caught himself, and looked around frantically for somewhere else to go rather than down the long, straight street where I'd probably be able to catch up with him.

To his right, there was a Tesco Express, that was open 24/7, and he lurched towards it so quickly that he nearly brained himself when the automatic doors didn't quite open in time. I followed him in, sucking in breaths, and looked around. There was a second door opposite, opening onto the water again, and from where I was standing, I could see both doors and down to the tills at the end. Most places like this had self-checkouts nowadays, but there had to be an employee to clear 'unexpected items in bagging area' problems and ID the kids trying to buy beer. He was staring at me with the bored expression of someone used to working the night shift in central London and who therefore thought he'd seen everything.

"Police," I said, pulling out my warrant card, although he wouldn't be able to read it from this distance. "Sorry about this."

"Idiot!" That was the man I'd been chasing, who'd stopped besides the cereals to get his breath back. "Why'd you have to go and spoil a good night out, eh?" From his accent, I guessed this was one of the Birmingham branches, probably Digbeth.

Getting my breath back, I went and stood at the end of his aisle, leaning against the fridge. "Look," I said, "You've already had a good night out. In fact, you've had a good four days out. You drank a pub in Tring dry, your campsite near Daventry had to be broken up by riot police, and you stole a floating hot tub. It's probably time to call it quits, wouldn't you say?"

"'It's a stag do," Digbeth mumbled, the way people do when the drink catches up and the adrenaline wears off.

I'd heard variations on that from Oxford and Aylesbury, who'd mostly been coaxed back into the Hot Tug by my promising to toast Slough when we eventually tracked him down. And it wasn't like London wasn't a popular destination for stag and hen weekends. Variations on the the theme of _it was just a bit of fun_ were a nightly chorus for patrols in the West End, covering everything from blokes wearing nothing but shaving cream and a g-string, to groups of drunk women belting "I will survive" from underneath the statue of Cupid in Piccadilly Circus. It got kind of old after a while.

"Right. Got it. No one ever thought he was going to settle down, and it couldn't happen to a nicer bloke, and you all pulled that prank on him with the goat in Wendover. It's been a great send off for him. But now it's time to go home, so that he can actually, you know. _Get married._ "

That, at least, seemed to register, and Digbeth finally looked at me properly. "Yeah. Right. Okay." He slumped a little against the shelf, which wasn't up to his weight, and promptly collapsed, dropping him to the floor and covering him in boxes of rice crispies.

Together, the shop assistant and I dug him out from under the pile. When I apologised, the assistant just shrugged. "One woman spent half an hour turning every tin in the place to face the wrong way, and yelled at anyone who came near her. At least you're the one he was shouting at."

I slung Digbeth's arm over my shoulder and we staggered out into Paddington Basin again, in time to witness the stand off.

"Great," I muttered, shoving Digbeth towards the Hot Tug, where Oxford and Aylesbury greeted him with cheers and a can of Fosters. As he seemed to be settled there, I went around the end of the canal to join Nightingale, who was standing on one side of the second footbridge. It was much more traditional in appearance than the other, just five long fingers of concrete stretching from one bank to the other, with a handrail on each side. The two Genii still on the loose were standing on the southern bank, shouting bird-themed insults at Nightingale, who was waiting on the north side, leaning on his cane with his head tipped thoughtfully to one side. Behind him, still in their bridge-prison, their compatriots had taken up the shout of 'bird brain', accompanying it with rhythmic banging on the bars.

"They'll wake the whole city at this rate," Nightingale said as I came over. "Tell me, Peter, you're the architecture expert. Are these what I think they are?"

It took me a moment to see that he was indicating the row of concrete blocks next to him, which had the appearance of the sort of modern art installation that small children love to climb on, and graffiti artists like to tag.

"Yes," I said. "Yes they are."

"Excellent." Taking a step forwards to the edge of the bridge, Nightingale raised his voice. "Gentlemen, if you would care to put actions to those words, I would be more than pleased to meet them. If that's something you're capable of." He'd lifted his hands as he spoke, cane still in one of them, and flung his arms out wide to finish.

Which is Nightingale speak for _come and get it if you think you're hard enough._

In general, inciting drunks to attack you isn't something you're encouraged to do at Hendon. In fact, you're supposed to defuse the situation, calm things down, and, only once you're sure they're not going to clout you on the head with a bottle of Brew Dog, do you approach.

In this case, however, it wasn't just pre-war training that had prompted Nightingale's words. The challenge had apparently been enough, and Old Grand Union lurched forwards, grabbing hold of the other man, who by a process of elimination had to be the bridegroom-to-be, Slough. With an unintelligible shout of something that probably impugned both mine and Nightingale's parentage, they staggered onto the bridge at a fairly decent turn of speed for two guys who'd been on a four-day bender.

Nightingale waited until they were about a third of the way across, and then muttered something under his breath, gesturing with his still-upheld cane. He doesn't really need it for casting spells, and the things he was casting at were certainly well within his weight-class for moving, given that weight-class goes up to fronts of barns and Tiger tanks. Still, it looked impressive, which I suspected he knew.

As soon as he'd gestured, the two men on the bridge had stumbled to a stop, apparently anticipating some kind of blast of magic at them. When it didn't come, they gave matching laughs of triumph and took another step forwards. The third step turned into a full stumble, and the fourth never really happened at all.

Next to us, the counterweights that held each finger of concrete down were slowly tipping, sinking into the ground and lifting the pieces of the bridge into the air. It was supposed to happen slowly and elegantly, its final appearance earning it the nickname of the Japanese fan. In this case, Nightingale had sped things up somewhat, and in about five seconds, the two men went from standing on a flat surface to frantically clinging to the ground that was suddenly at a forty-five degree angle.

"Now," Nightingale said. "You are welcome to let go, and swim to your vessel. Or you are welcome to come and join us down here on the ground, and return to your transportation that way. At which point, I will release your compatriots, and you will all depart the city immediately in a peaceful manner. Is that clear?"

Apparently, there's nothing like being lifted twenty feet in the air on a piece of concrete to bring on sobriety. Neither of them would have been harmed at all by falling into the water, and the worst they would have got from sliding down the bridge would have been a bit of road rash. But as a reminder that they weren't the ones in charge here, it seemed to have been effective.

By the time we'd wrangled them off the bridge, let the others out, and herded them all back into the Hot Tug, Chelsea and Olympia had joined us outside. One of them handed Old Grand Union a Tesco carrier bag, which I frowned at.

"It's just energy drinks," Olympia said, sounding as put-upon as only a seventeen year being treated, like, _so unfairly_ , can. "For when the beer wears off."

"You're very kind, ladies," the old man said, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. "Until next time."

Nightingale waited until they'd passed under it to lower the bridge again.

"How'd they get under it last time?" I asked, as the bridge blocked all water-access to this end of the basin.

"Don't ask," Nightingale said, giving Chelsea and Olympia a hard glare. "And if I find you ladies inside a pub after hours again, I shall do worse than just arrest you. I might not have the power to keep you out of trouble, but Tyburn does. Do you understand?"

They both rolled their eyes but muttered something that might have been a version of an agreement. Possibly.

"Thank you. Peter?"

As he strode off in the direction of the Jag, I blew out a long breath. "You two are so going to be grounded if Ty finds out what you were up to."

Unimpressed, Chelsea just shrugged. "Yeah, well, next time we'll just have to find somewhere quieter, won't we? Somewhere private." She put a lot of meaning into the word. "Somewhere gatecrashers can't break up the party."

I was about to roll my own eyes and walk away, when something about the way she'd said it caught my attention. "Wait, next time?"

"Sure." Olympia gave her sister a sly smile, and then turned the same smile on me in a way that made my heart sink. "Buckingham's getting married in June."

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, yes, there is such a thing as a [Hot Tug](http://www.hottug.nl/index_en.html). 
> 
> Author's Note: Huge thanks to Originally, not only for the inspiration for the story, but for such a pitch-perfect reading, that sounds so much like what I had in my head <3


End file.
